Opifex

As I was carving images from clouds,     And tinting them with soft ethereal dyes     Pressed from the pulp of dreams, one comes, and cries:     "Forbear!" and all my heaven with gloom enshrouds.     "Forbear!" Thou hast no tools wherewith to essay     The delicate waves of that elusive grain:     Wouldst have due recompense of vulgar pain?     The potter's wheel for thee, and some coarse clay!     "So work, if work thou must, O humbly skilled!     Thou hast not known the Master; in thy soul     His spirit moves not with a sweet control;     Thou art outside, and art not of the guild."     Thereat I rose, and from his presence passed,     But, going, murmured: "To the God above,     Who holds my heart, and knows its store of love,     I turn from thee, thou proud iconoclast."     Then on the shore God stooped to me, and said:     "He spake the truth: even so the springs are set     That move thy life, nor will they suffer let,     Nor change their scope; else, living, thou wert dead.     "This is thy life: indulge its natural flow,     And carve these forms. They yet may find a place     On shelves for them reserved. In any case,     I bid thee carve them, knowing what I know."